


Another Kind Of Green

by whisperedwords



Series: YingYang!verse [2]
Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - This Happened, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Pillow Talk, Post Week 14, Rated M for super brief moment of sexual intimacy and a curse word or two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:46:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8836246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedwords/pseuds/whisperedwords
Summary: @obj_3: Won’t sleep well knowin I left some out there… take the good wit the bad . Good win fellas(aka odell gets some help dealing with his concerns & also falling asleep.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'M BACK BECAUSE I'M IN FEELINGS HELL AGAIN! the giants beat the cowboys on sunday, which, what??? what??????? i'm still shocked. anyway, this mini-fic was based on odell's tweet in the description, and acts as a sort-of continuation of [reckless behavior](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8269988), because i'm a piece of garbage. title from [john mayer's song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8PhTbaoRyl4).
> 
> (also, i'm not locking my fic this time, so @odell @eli if u see this please confirm ur in love next week thnx)

It’s a night of high emotion, a fact to which anyone can attest. The game hadn’t been their best, sure, but—a sweep? The  _Cowboys_? Odell can barely process the information. Not only is it a win, but against a team who hadn’t lost since week 1. (To them, too—it’s goddamn satisfying, being the elite group to have beaten this version of ‘Dem Boys’.) Coach McAdoo’s voice is gravelly from all the yelling he’d done on the sidelines so, of course, Snacks takes over and delivers the post-game speech.

“We fuckin’ did it, y’all. Giants on 3!” The room counts off and yells at the top of their lungs, and the joy is so thick in the air Odell feels like he could choke on it. After addressing the media (and smothering down commentary that could get him in  _more_  trouble), he starts to pack his gear when he feels a hand land gently on his shoulder. It’s warm—the smile that spreads across his face is one from instinct. He recognizes that hand. (He’d recognize it anywhere.) Upon turning around, the first thing Odell notices is the broad smile on Eli’s face. He wants nothing more than to kiss it away.

“Hey, man. Great game.” His quarterback’s voice is low, but it matches the warmth of his hand, and it’s way past midnight but the adrenaline of the night racing through his veins is enough to keep him awake. More than enough, really.

“You too,” Odell replies coolly, holding out a hand for Eli to shake. He takes it—Odell watches as his eyes dart around the room (and he doesn’t blame him, because  _he_  does the exact same thing) before twining their fingers with a smaller, more reserved smile. It feels natural, and if he’s being honest, the feeling itself is better than winning an impossible game in the nick of time. He bites back a disbelieving laugh. In between loud moments of victory, this small one is something that the two of them had needed more than ever. He knows Eli knows this—they’ve practically mastered reading each others’ minds at this stage in the game. He raises an eyebrow, though, and Odell is thrown for a moment. The last remnants of the team celebration are filing out of the locker room now—what does #10 mean?

“Should we, uh, get outta here?” If there’s one underrated talent that Eli Manning has, it’s his masterful ability to innuendo in conversation; here, though, he’s not even trying, which is how he  _knows_ the other man is riled up. Odell squeezes his hand in response.

“You’re the boss,” he replies, which just makes Eli’s smile get big again. It’s nice. It fills Odell’s stomach with butterflies—they’ve been sleeping together for, what, a season? And it still happens like this. Eli always makes him nervous, even with his boyish charm and down-to-earth-ness.

They get into a car together and drive off into the loud New Jersey night. They don’t do anything on the road—both of them decided it would be better this way, so no one catches anything and  _also_ so neither of them derails the car because of a blow-job. (It would happen. Odell knows. Eli’s hands are one thing, but his mouth? He could talk about it for days. Unreal.) In short: safety is their priority.

“It’s also a lesson in self-control,” Eli had said early on as they were headed towards the motel. “Practice for on the field, you know?” Odell had whined, his hips jerking up in the passenger seat, against the seatbelt, but when he moved to relieve the pressure, Eli’s voice had taken on a deeper twinge. “Don’t touch yourself until we get there.” (It’d been worth it then, clearly—Odell had learned a thing or two from that experience.)

The car ride this week, though, feels off—there’s something about the game that Odell can’t seem to shake. He’d made the game winning touchdown, sure, but before then…

“What’s wrong?” Eli’s voice is soft in that concerned-dad way, and Odell chastises himself for the thought making his dick twitch a little. He pushes the thought back and shakes his head, turns to look at Eli. “You seem….I mean, we won, right? Did I just dream that all up? Though I guess, with you in the passenger seat here with me, maybe…” Odell grins at the comment, knocks a hand into Eli’s shoulder the way he’s done so many times before.  _Kiss-ass_.

“Nah, you didn’t dream that. I was there, too.” He hesitates on his next words—he’s never been able to lie to Eli, and now is no different. “I just feel like I didn’t have a good game.” They pull up to the motel, and before Eli can answer him, Odell hops out of the car and heads to the front desk, half-jogging. Eli’d done this last time, and besides—he doesn’t wanna talk about this now. They just beat the  _Cowboys_. They deserve the rest. The break. Even if it’s only for a night.

The front desk clerk recognizes him and grins wide upon making eye contact. Odell laughs a little, shakes his hand, thanks him for being a fan. The room is half-price (though it always is, between the two of them) and he signs something for the guy before slipping back out into the night. The exhaustion falls back on his shoulders now that they’ve left Metlife—it’s been a  _long_  week. He drags a hand down his face, the key to the motel room dangling from his other hand.

Eli is standing outside the car, a look of concern now on his face. Odell plays dumb. Keys in one hand, he makes a grand gesture towards the room number they’re staying in— _13_ , a clerk with a sense of humor, of course—before pushing the card into the door slot. Eli walks up behind him and hovers while the door swings open. They’re lucky it’s late, that they’re in the shadows, that motels like these stopped using cameras after a while because it doesn’t even matter anymore—had anyone been around, they would’ve seen all 6′4 of Eli Manning almost totally pressed up against his 5′11 wide receiver, limbs loose-looking and relaxed. Odell slips through the door so they don’t risk public spotlight any longer.

“Odell—” Eli starts, but  _no_ , he is  _not_  gonna deal with his own mess right now. With a quickness well known to both men, Odell closes the space between them and pushes him backwards in a kiss, sending an unsuspecting quarterback against the slightly-open door. It slams shut upon impact, and Eli, momentarily distracted from his concern, pulls away from Odell’s lips in order to gape at him in amused disbelief. Odell shrugs with a teasing grin.

“Aren’t you supposed to be better at taking hits?” He winks at the quarterback. At that, the look in Eli’s eyes darkens, and he hums in soft agreement, his arms winding around Odell in a way that he’s practically become obsessed with. The strength, the muscle—it’s intoxicating, it drives Odell up the  _wall_ , and he forgets his qualms with the universe while he and his quarterback move backwards towards the ugly motel bedspread. Clothes are shed, formalwear and otherwise, and by the time Odell’s back hits the actual bed, the sweat on his skin starts to glow in the dim lamplight. Eli’s body above him is beautiful, soft, and when his hand reaches between them to jerk their members together, Odell can only scrabble at his back, his blunt nails leaving little red marks against pale skin. He orgasms with a gasp, and Eli kisses the words off his lips effortlessly, like it’s what he was born to do, instead of throwing touchdown passes in the National Football League.

And…. _oh_. There it is again.

He tries to fight off the discomfort of his on-field performance being sub-par by curling up away from Eli. He doesn’t need to look at the man he let down tonight—he just, he doesn’t. It won’t fix things. The pillow beneath his head is scratchy, and he doesn’t think he’ll get any sleep on it tonight, but right now, it doesn’t matter.

Eli curls up behind him, though, which puts him a little at a loss. They don’t really do this all that often—mostly because they never have time. His face rests in the crook of Odell’s neck, and his breathing is warm, slow.

“You didn’t have a bad game, Odell.” It’s barely a whisper, but it rings in his ears like it’d been shouted in his ear. He feels a little dizzy. “You won the game for us. You saved this team,  _again_. I don’t know what we’d do without you.” He pauses, probably for effect. Odell shifts in his arms, the warmth of 10′s body lulling him into a half-conscious state. “I don’t know what  _I’d_  do without you.”

“I caught one lucky pass, E.  _One_. I didn’t wake up until, what, the third quarter? What kind of—”

“You think you’re the only one to not have the best game?” Eli’s voice is still soft, but it’s taken on the quiet steel it gets before games (and after, sometimes), for motivational purposes. “If you want to talk about a bad game, I fumbled the ball  _twice_. And got picked off.” He presses a kiss beneath Odell’s ear, which sends a little shiver down his spine. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

And, okay, he didn’t want to say this, but it bubbles out of his mouth before he can really stop it. “You’ve won two Super Bowls, though. You’ve got the credibility. You’re elite.” Eli snorts, but Odell continues, still turned away from him. “You beat Tom Brady twice and you were named MVP both times. You could do whatever the fuck you wanted and it’d be fine, in the end. I’m just the kid that made a few lucky catches on Sunday Night Football.”

“That’s not true and you  _know_  it.” Eli’s arms tighten around him. “You single-handedly saved an entire organization of football. You made the most incredible catch in NFL history. You’re a more important player to the New York Giants than I am.” He hums a little with laughter, though Odell doesn’t think that concept is all that funny. “The point is—you’re just as credible as I am, if not more. And besides.” Something tells Odell to turn, and so he does, nose-to-nose with his mentor and part-time lover. (It’s a weird word. He’s not sure if he’d use it again any time soon.) “I’m gonna get you to a Super Bowl if it kills me. You know that, right? I’d…” His voice is hesitant, quiet. “I’d do anything for you, Odell.“ It’s the closest either of them have ever really come to an ‘ _I love you_ ’, which leaves the wide receiver a little breathless.

“Yeah?” He sounds like an idiot, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters. The look in Eli’s eyes is all Odell thinks he needs right now.

“Yeah.” The quarterback presses his lips to 13′s forehead, then his nose, and finally allows a soft, lingering kiss to grace Odell’s lips. “We should probably, you know, go to sleep. We’ve got an early morning drive back.” Odell nods quietly. He doesn’t say anything else, just curls up a little closer to Eli’s chest. Sleep comes easier than he thought it would.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry 4 continuing to carry this ship on my back but someday i won't be as into this as i am now and i'll shut up eventually thank u for reading xoxo


End file.
